Chapter 6 #2
“Some people who get the dogs have injuries that make it harder to get around, or they struggle with things that most of us find easy to do, like remembering to take their medicine, or picking up their shoes. The dogs we train can help them out by picking up things they need, alert them if they need a doctor or medicine, and make them feel better when they’re sad. Isn’t that a pretty cool job?”
Enzo nods and skips next to Tucker as we pass a fenced-in play yard that’s about the size of my backyard with an agility course set up inside. “It’s the coolest!” Enzo enthuses. “How do you train them to help people like that? Is it hard?”
“It takes a long time, and we work with the dogs one-on-one to make sure they know how to help the person they are matched with specifically. Lux here is learning how to help someone who needs some extra emotional support. She’s training to help comfort them when they're feeling bad, and to alert them if they go into what we call an episode, which just means remembering a lot of the bad stuff that has happened. She’ll help them remember where they are now and that they're safe and happy. Does that make sense?”
Enzo nods solemnly. “She has a very important job. Making people happy is the best job, and helping someone who’s sad sounds like a perfect job for a dog.”
These are complicated subjects for a four-year-old to grasp, but Tucker’s breaking them down so kindly and in terms my kid can readily understand.
I appreciate his gentle approach so much.
I get a little choked up listening to my boy take in how important these dogs are to the people they’re matched with, and the positive impact they have on the lives of veterans.
Enzo may not understand what PTSD or an amputee is, but he certainly understands the concepts of happy and sad, and needing help with the things you do every day, so he’s grasped the importance of Combat Companions’ mission with a few simple explanations from Tucker.
“Let’s go through and meet our big dogs,” Tucker says, holding open a door to the barn that I can see is set up like a kennel. Enzo lets go of Tucker’s hand and runs inside, intent on seeing all the dogs.
I pause when I get to Tucker. “Thank you for this. It means so much to me that you’re willing to take time out of your day to entertain us and answer my kid’s questions.
I can tell he’s loving this, and you’re doing an amazing job of explaining everything at his level. I feel like I owe you so much.”
Tucker crosses his arms over his chest, the movement making his black Combat Companions T-shirt strain and pull around his biceps as he looks down at his dusty work boots.
“It’s my pleasure. I love seeing his joy and inquisitiveness.
It’s rare for a kid to be as invested in our work here and to care about what we do beyond wanting to pet a dog or play with a puppy we raise. I love sharing this with him.”
I nod and walk into the space with Tucker’s gesture.
I look around the barn, which doesn’t feel like a barn.
It’s been remodeled inside and feels like what I expect a kennel should, with individual stalls for each dog that are decked out with plush beds on either side of a main aisle, a storage room on both ends, and even an office space that we pass to catch up to Enzo.
There’s still some rough space that hasn’t been remodeled or utilized, but for the most part, it’s modern, and is climate-controlled so it’s comfortable inside.
“How did you get into dog training?” I ask as we stop at the first kennel, where a big black lab is wagging its tail.
Tucker tells Enzo the dog’s name is Thorn before he looks over at me.
“I was a K9 officer with the Atlanta Police Department for over ten years. I trained two partners and spent a lot of that time learning about dogs and training. The specificity of the training a K9 unit needs is incredible, and it’s ongoing throughout the career of the pairing.
I left the force three years ago when I needed a change, and decided to take what I’d learned and turn it into something more positive that would help both the dogs and the people they’re matched with, rather than sending the dogs into a life that puts them in danger. ”
Shock raises my eyebrows. I hadn’t expected to hear that his origin story began as a K9 officer and that he’d served for that long.
No wonder he has incredible posture, and he’s built like a brick shithouse.
The dude had to be imposing as fuck and had big-ass dogs like Lux that were probably scary as hell.
And handcuffs, my brain helpfully reminds me.
“Did you enjoy being a K9 officer?” I ask, not sure how to approach the subject, because he said he needed a change.
And I need to not think about how well-versed he is at restraining people now that my brain is thinking of handcuffs.
Did he ever use those when he was off duty? Did he ever have them used on him?
Tucker turns and follows Enzo to the next kennel, where a whiskey-eyed, slim shepherd-looking dog stares intently at us.
“This is Atlas, he’s just getting started with his training and is very excitable,” he says to Enzo and turns back to me.
“I did, but it was hard. Just like any job, it had its drawbacks, right along with why I loved it. Ultimately, it took too much from me, and I had to step away.”
Well, that’s cryptic, but I know better than to pry into people’s lives when they don't come out and tell you their reasoning for something right off the bat. “So you went straight into training dogs for service members?”
Tucker runs a hand through his short sandy-brown hair and looks around at the dogs in the space.
“There was some time that overlapped with the GBI—the Georgia Bureau of Investigation—where I was part of the body recovery team’s K9 unit.
I helped on the search and rescue team as well as the more grisly recovery needs, and that weighs on you after a while. ”
I look over and make sure Enzo is out of earshot. He’s moved on down the row of kennels, petting a golden retriever at the end of the barn. “How so? I mean, I can imagine to an extent, but I don’t know much about search and rescue work.”
Tucker blows out a breath, and rocks back on his heels as his palm runs across his beard.
It takes him a moment to speak again, and when he does, his voice is quiet and haunted.
“You really see the worst of humanity when you’re pulling bodies out of dump sites and looking for trafficking or kidnapping victims. It crushes a part of your soul. ”
“Why’d you do it if it was so bad?” I ask as horror at the atrocities he has witnessed sinks in.
I play hockey because I love it, and it’s the only thing I know how to do. It’s been the focus of my life since I was about Enzo’s age. It’s hard to think of anyone voluntarily doing a job that takes so much without filling them back up.
Tucker stares at me a moment, his sapphire eyes intense and sad in a way I don’t know what to make of.
“Again, I had specialized training and the dogs that could do the job, so I was essential, and the work needed to be done, but damn, it's hard to face that regularly. At least with the Atlanta PD, I could do regular work, go out into the community, and help build bridges. But even that got too hard when I saw what some of my fellow officers were capable of. It became too draining to do both, and then, well, I had to give it all up anyway and couldn’t do any of it. But enough of this morbid talk, let’s see these dogs your kid and I both love,” he says, voice full of false cheer as he steers me away from the conversation and the kennels, turning me with his arm around my shoulders, like he wants me to avoid the train wreck of casualties that’s too great for my mind to comprehend.
I drop the topic, knowing when someone doesn't want to talk, and let him guide me toward Enzo, who’s making his way back down the other side of the kennels.
Tucker’s arm is heavy and reassuring. I don’t mind it on my back, I realize, as he leaves it there a little longer than necessary.
The only time I’m touched is by my teammates when we have gear on in celebration, or by the PTs for medical reasons, so this feels different.
I think I’ve missed having someone willing to put an arm around my shoulders, even casually, and let me rest in a comforting touch.
When he drops his arm away, I kind of miss the weight, but it’s not like I can sidle up next to him and pull it back around my shoulders. That would be fucking weird.
“I want to play with this one,” Enzo says decisively, standing in front of a kennel that houses the biggest gray pit bull I’ve ever seen. “Look at his sweet face, he’s smiling!”
“That’s Tonka. He would love to play with you,” Tucker says, grabbing a leash off the wall next to the kennel door.
Fuck, Tonka is a good name for a giant, muscly dog.
He’s built like a truck with a giant blocky head that’s bigger than Enzo’s.
But is he really a good match for my tiny kid?
I trust Tucker to know his animals, but my fatherly instincts are screaming to pick up Enzo before the big bully is let out.
I have to grab onto the wall so I don’t reach forward in an overblown reaction, because Enzo is happy, Tucker is confident, and I’m the only asshole here not trusting the situation.
Tucker has Tonka sit and then opens the kennel, walking in and clipping the leash to his collar before he walks him out into the main hallway in front of Enzo.
“He’s safe?” I ask, hating the note of hesitation that makes my voice waver.